


Pulse Point

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BDSM, Canon Era, F/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 06:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1500179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Have you touched yourself?" she asks in a low voice, still looking at the plates she's scrubbing and not at him.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"No," he replies, slipping his body half-between her and the sink, trying not to rub himself against her thigh and failing only a little. "Every time I wanted to, I thought about what you said and I didn't."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulse Point

**Author's Note:**

> Kink Bingo fill: teasing.

d'Artagnan had been in love with Constance for months before he ever touched her; and even though he'd allowed himself to imagine it (frequently, in fact), his thoughts had never progressed past the first time he lifted her skirts on the kitchen table and made gasping, frantic love to her, pouring all of his stored-up passion into the movement of his hands on her skin, his mouth sealed to hers like a promise, the rhythm of his thrusting hips.

It was only when the sweat began to cool on his brow and the semen cool on her thighs that he realised the moment had to pass – was passing now, even as he leaned against her with his lips pressed to the pulse at her neck, feeling the euphoria dissipate. Monsieur Bonacieux's movements were always unpredictable; he could walk in the door four hours from now, or four minutes, and would expect to see his pretty young wife busy at the hearth, darning clothes, washing dishes.

Not with her skirts around her waist and another man between her legs.

The moment he kissed her, _really_ kissed her for the first time, d'Artagnan became a collaborator in the fiction of their happy marriage.

And in having her he's learned a bitter lesson: that she is never his, as he'd imagined, they are never each other's; and even when they make love, coaxing each other's bodies to delirious uncharted heights, it's with one ear still open for the sound of boots on the stairs.

Worst of all are the nights her husband is at home, and he imagines her – not with _him_ exactly, but with a shadow of another man; touched, fucked by him, foreign hands remapping private places. His own cock painfully stiff beneath thin summer sheets, hands braced under his thighs, refusing to touch himself to the image of her with someone else.

He doesn't know what he's expecting when he tells her; but he says it anyway, breathing the words into the side of her neck where her hair falls over her shoulder, because he needs her to be as desperate for him as he is for her.

When she turns in his arms he's taken aback to see that she's smiling, something calculating in her expression, challenging.

"Next time I'm in his bed, I'll think of you like that," Constance purrs against his lips, hands pulling deftly at the buttons of his breeches, pushing down to cup him through his smallclothes – and he gasps, as much at her boldness as at the feeling of her hand on him. "I'll come imagining you lying there, needing me around you, aching for it."

Though he doesn't realise it at that moment, it's then that the game begins.

Like everything else he gets himself involved in, it spirals out of control before he really understands what's hit him.

She loved that image of him, she tells him a few days later, can't stop thinking about it, as she pushes her thigh between his legs while he helps her wash up. The tea towel falls forgotten to the floor as he pulls her hips to his, and he's hard in seconds.

Bonacieux has been home for three days, and d'Artagnan half-feels as though the frustration will kill him.

"Have you touched yourself?" she asks in a low voice, still looking at the plates she's scrubbing and not at him.

"No," he replies, slipping his body half-between her and the sink, trying not to rub himself against her thigh and failing only a little. "Every time I wanted to, I thought about what you said and I didn't."

"Good," she says, wet hand suddenly cupping his arse and pulling him hard against her leg; and the groan dies off in his throat as he remembers that they have to be discreet.

Not that they could explain it away, should they be discovered like this.

"He goes on Friday." Her voice is serious, quick, as if she wants to get the words out before she loses her nerve. "Ostend, at least three weeks. If you don’t spend before then, I'll do whatever you like."

Another two days.

It will be _hell_.

"Yes," d'Artagnan says anyway, imagining her on her hands and knees, her mouth on him. "Friday."

He spends the rest of that day and the next at the garrison, sparring one of the few things that can clear his mind, allow him to forget everything they've done together. What he's doing for her.

In the evenings, though, it's harder; every time there's enough of a lull in the conversation he remembers what she's promised him, what she's forbidden him. He drinks to banish the images – of her, of himself – drinks until he's light-headed and slack-limbed and everything his friends say is funny, and tries not to wonder what time Bonacieux is going away.

On Friday morning, he wakes from warm, red dreams of their shifting limbs to find stickiness coating his groin.

_Damn it!_

He thumps his head back against the pillow in frustration.

He wants to tell her that it doesn't count, if he wasn't in control of himself; but she has said not to spill his seed, and the evidence is undeniable.

It never once occurs to him to lie, not even by omission.

He imagines telling her, the spark in her eyes as she chastises him for breaking his word, her teasing smile as she sets a suitable punishment, and the pulse of desire in his groin is immediate.

Something more, then, than a simple game.

He has no idea what they're doing here, but finds he doesn't much care as long as she does it with him.

It's only just past dawn, but from the absence of the telltale pair of boots by the front door, Monsieur Bonacieux has already left. He dresses quickly and goes out to the baker, bringing back chocolate and fresh pastries for breakfast to try and soften the blow; but as soon as he confesses his misfortune, he sees her mouth lift in amusement and knows that his instincts were right.

"Oh, d'Artagnan," she replies, in a sly facsimile of sympathy that somehow has him half-hard already, her hand on his wrist, finger rubbing across the pulse point. "You promised me two days." The intensity in her eyes floods him with uncertainty and love. "I'm going to have my two days."

It could have been worse, he tells himself. She could have said another five.

But even five days with her husband at home would be easier than two without. Two days without fulfilment, knowing he could have her every minute if she'd let him.

He doesn't protest. He finds he doesn't _want_ to, just kisses her palm and decides that the fact she wants this from him is of far greater value than a fleeting moment of satisfaction, one ear still open for the sound of boots on the stairs, never quite enough.

The two days are almost intolerable. It's like being an adolescent again, every stray thought beating a direct path to his cock, breathing through surges of desire as his mind flashes up constant images of what he could be doing to her, with her _right now_ , only heightened by the fact that she _wants_ him desperate, is thinking of him like this, maybe (oh God) touching herself while she does _._

He can't think of anything else; hardly dares sleep in case he comes again.

When Aramis accidentally pushes a knee into his groin while sparring, he bites his lip so hard that it splits.

Every moment he's home he follows her around the house like a cat, half-wishing he'd been sent off on a mission but unable to apply himself to anything save thoughts of her, rubbing up against her all he's allowed to do.

His cock slots so perfectly between her arse cheeks even through several layers of clothing, and he pushes his hips against her shamelessly as she folds laundry, washes pots. He rocks himself against her thigh as she tries to embroider, before she pricks herself with the needle one too many times, gives up and takes him in her arms, lets him smatter her face and neck with kisses, but swats any roaming hands firmly away.

He knows she's as affected as he is: he can smell her arousal as he buries his head in her lap, knowing he shouldn't torture himself like this but captured by the fact that she wants him to, as she runs her fingers through his hair murmuring _lovely, beautiful, so beautiful like this_.

By Sunday lunchtime he's falling on his knees before her, begging _something, anything, please_ , and when she holds out a hand and leads him into his bedroom he thinks for a moment that she's giving in, before he sees her face.

As he sits down on the edge of the bed, she straddles him, kissing him hard before pushing him flat on his back, draping her skirts over him and pushing her cunt to his mouth.

The air is hot and close underneath, and she's hot too, and already dripping. He licks at her worshipfully, suckling her clit as she moans, rubbing his cheek against her red-brown curls; pouring all his pent-up lust into pleasuring her as best he can and holding nothing back, drinking of the nectar soaking his lips and chin.

When he forgets himself for a moment, carried away on a wave of gratitude and pleasure, and sneaks a hand down to palm his crotch, she slaps it away; and he comes then and there, shuddering with the violence of his release, mouth open on a silent gasp.

As she moans and clenches above him, he feels shame and despair sinking heavily in his stomach.

When she lets him up, he must look so wretched that she sees it in his face immediately. She stops, frowns for a second before pressing her hand to his crotch for a moment, finding it soft and damp; and he looks away, unable to hold her gaze a moment longer.

 _Failure_.

She lifts his sticky chin with her hand, and he stops mid-breath when he sees she is smiling.

"It's alright," she says, leaning forward, kissing her arousal from his face. "You've done so well. I'm proud of you."

It is _proud_ that pierces him through; and now he's soaring where a moment ago he was falling, pulling her flush to him and recharting every inch of bare skin, fingers frenzied on the laces of her bodice; and he falters for a second until her hands go to the buttons of his breeches, and she lets him in at last.

When Monsieur Bonacieux eventually returns, d'Artagnan had expected to feel despondent; instead, he finds he's yearning for their game to begin again in earnest.

Constance has blossomed under his touch, it seems; and she's bolder now, cornering him in every moment they can steal together, her hands in his breeches within seconds. Telling him how much she loves the idea of him aching for her, so hard it hurts and desperate for release. How wet it makes her – shifting her legs, rocking her hips for emphasis, and he imagines the glistening arousal sliding between her thighs.

If there's time she'll push him into a chair, or to the ground, and sit on his lap, and he'll steady her waist with one hand as he puts the other under her skirt and strokes her sex until she's gasping, pushes his fingers inside her as she whispers in his ear to imagine he's fucking her, imagine spilling inside her tight hot cunt.

As he holds her through her comedown, savouring the last moments before he has to let her go, it's to hear her tell him that if she could have her way, she'd keep him like this forever.

The idea makes him despair, but it answers a call in him too.

He hasn't stroked himself off in six weeks.

The next time Bonacieux goes away, Constance has him pushing his dripping cock through her fist almost before the door has closed; and he comes three times that night.

When she has him on her lap in the kitchen a day and a half later, breeches and linens open and stroking him firmly, and asks him if he wants to come, he says, "No," without even thinking about it.

The way she looks at him then makes him realise this was a test, and he's just passed.

The next day, he brings her a gift.

A long, thin leather strap with a buckle at one end, and two metal rings; and she looks questioning for half a second before it clicks, and then there's fire smouldering in her eyes as she says, "Show me."

The strap won't stop him from spilling entirely, but it will help him last longer, and make the torture even sweeter.

She kisses him deeply in response, trailing one finger lightly up the underside of his cock, already standing to his belly, along the edge of the leather.

"This time," she murmurs against his lips, "one week."


End file.
